


buck up

by youcouldmakealife



Series: but always in tandem [3]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-31
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-07-11 07:40:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7038886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“We played together,” Robbie says. “Like, years ago. I don’t even have the guy’s number anymore, I don’t know why the media’s making it a whole thing.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	buck up

**Author's Note:**

> I'm very unsure, given Robbie's language and...general shitty misogyny...whether this should be M instead of T, because I'm bad at ratings and I find that the M rating tends to involve an expectation of some sexual content, but if anyone has a strong opinion about that, let me know and I can swing the rating up.

They have a matinee game, the day after the trade. Georgie can’t get his shit together and get to Washington in time for the game. The Barons were in Dallas when it went through, so he probably had to head back to Cleveland, pack his shit, get on another flight. The Caps are leaving town after the game anyway, off to New York on a three game roadie, so that’s probably where he’s going to meet them. Robbie’s just guessing here. He hasn’t talked to Georgie, so he doesn’t know any more than anyone else, probably knows less than Quincy, who undoubtedly got Georgie’s number from management so he could welcome him to the team. That’s the way Captain Q rolls.

There have been multiple articles about the trade since yesterday, everyone latching onto that same bullshit narrative the local guy did. There was even one on NHL.com, because it’s apparently a slow news day, and like five of Robbie’s friends forwarded it to him, which he didn’t fucking need. Who cares what the NHL thinks is going to get clicks, who cares about some ‘best friends reunited and it feels so good’ storyline. What a crock of shit.

“You talk to Dineen?” Whelan asks before the game. He sounds a little guarded about it, which Robbie can’t exactly blame him for, considering the way management plans it, Georgie’s probably going to take Wheels’ spot on Robbie’s left, and Wheels is going to get shunted to third pairing. Sucks, knowing this might be the last game you play before your minutes get slashed. 

Who knows, though. Maybe Robbie and Georgie will play like shit together — half of of how good they played together was chemistry, and the only kind of chemistry Robbie feels toward Georgie right now is the kind that’ll end in a fucking explosion, more likely than not.

“Nah,” Robbie says. 

“You guys are tight, though, right?” Whelan asks. 

“We played together,” Robbie says. “Like, years ago. I don’t even have the guy’s number anymore, I don’t know why the media’s making it a whole thing.”

Georgie’s number is probably the same, honestly. He kept the number he had since he was a teenager through his two years at BU and the first year in Cleveland, fine with paying long distance for local fucking calls as long as he didn’t have to re-memorize his number. Not that he called anyone but his parents — and Robbie, that first little while after he left for Cleveland — otherwise he was basically a texter. Even if Robbie doesn’t have him in his contacts anymore, he has at least fifteen guys in that contact list who’d know it. Not that he’s asking. Georgie’s coming whether Robbie wants him to or not, but Robbie’s not rolling out on the fucking welcome wagon with Quincy. 

“Well,” Whelan says, then nothing else, but he looks a little comforted anyway. Robbie bumps his shoulder against Wheels’, grins at him. 

“You’re still my main man, Dougie,” Robbie says.

“Ugh, shut up, you’re the worst,” Wheels says, flicking him in the forehead.

“True love, right there,” Quincy says, and Robbie turns his grin Captain Q’s way. “You talk to Dineen yet?”

Robbie’s grin drops. “Nope,” he says, flat, and Quincy gives him a look but doesn’t ask about it, which is good.

They basically kick the Nordiques in the nads. First period’s sleepy, because no one’s used to games at one in the fucking afternoon, so it looks kind of even, there, but in the second the Kurmazov line wakes up, gets two goals before the Nordicks can blink the sleep out of their eyes, and after that there’s nothing that can be done, because the rest of the Caps wake up after those goals, and at the end of the second it’s 4-0. 

The Nordiques seem a little less lethargic in the third, probably because their coach bawled them the fuck out, but it’s too little, too late, and the game ends 6-1, Kurmazov netting himself a hat trick with a lazy flick of his wrist that sails past the poor fuck who came in relief at the start of the third.

Everyone piles onto the ice for the ‘hug your goalie’ ritual that’s happening like…practically every game, this season. Not that Robbie’s complaining, okay hockey gods? He is fucking fine hugging his goalie every game, he’ll hug both of them every _day_ if it means they keep this winning streak up. 

Crane’s grumpy, Robbie can tell before he even reaches him, and he bets it’s because he was looking at a shutout until the Nordiques got a scrambly, ugly goal in the final two. 

“Buck up, future Vezina, you’re making us look like poor sports,” Robbie says, and laughs when Crane reaches out, as if to whack him, and then instead covers Robbie’s face with his glove. 

They Amtrak it to New York, and Kurmazov immediately sacks out across two chairs. No one’s fucking with the guy: probably wouldn’t anyway, because the dude has the whole inscrutable Russian thing down, but also, you know. Man gets a hat trick, man deserves an undisturbed nap.

Chaps usually takes the spot beside Kurmazov, but he grabs the spot beside Robbie instead. “Wanna watch something?” Robbie asks, takes David’s shrug as a yes, and then loads up the pilot of Breaking Bad, because David admitted he hadn’t seen it, last trip they went on, and that is a fucking travesty in Robbie’s opinion. Sometimes Robbie thinks Chaps was a robot made by Hockey Canada to like, breathe hockey, and then power down whenever nothing hockey related was happening, but he’s been getting better. Broadening his horizons or some shit. Last week he actually beat Robbie in Call of Duty. Robbie was…kind of trying to let him win, but still. 

Halfway through the second episode Robbie’s phone starts going off, and he takes his headphones out, grabs for it, stares at the 401 on his screen until his phone goes still in his hand. Robbie knows a lot of guys, spread a lot of places, but there’s no fucking call he’s going to be taking from a Rhode Island area code.

David’s paused the show, is looking over at him. “Do you need a minute?” he asks.

“Nah,” Robbie says. “Some 1-800 bullshit, start that shit back up.”

*

University is way fucking harder than high school. It’s not like Robbie wasn’t warned, that’s pretty much what everyone said, and he’d skimmed some of his textbooks before classes started only to basically stare in fucking horror and then shove them into a corner of shame in his room, so. He knew, and shit. Sort of. He doesn’t think he was adequately prepared. 

Holy _fuck_ is university harder than high school. Right now the Terriers are just doing practices, and the classes are just warming up to whatever fresh hell they’re going to unleash once shit gets real, and Robbie’s kind of freaking out about the fact that those things are going to happen at the same time, that maybe he’ll leave town for a game and need to spend the whole trip studying for economics or some shit.

Robbie doesn’t know if Georgie is a secret genius or extra dumb, but he doesn’t seem particularly worried, never seems to be studying when Robbie swings by, is always inviting Robbie out: parties, dinner at that cheap joint that has surprisingly decent burgers, to his room to watch some shitty cam torrent on his laptop. They spend more time trying to figure out what the fuck’s going on than anything else, and Robbie isn’t a patient person, but he’s got to say, he’s willing to wait a couple months for a watchable version of a movie.

Never to the library, though, and Robbie needs a list of Georgie’s classes, if they’re so fucking easy, because he is jealous as hell.

Robbie’s trying to balance the whole school life social life, because who knows what’s going to happen when he adds competitive hockey to the list, but balance is fucking hard, and two weeks into classes he’s already behind. 

“T’s tonight?” Georgie asks, Saturday morning, or like. Saturday bordering on afternoon, whatever. Breakfast time. 

“On one condition,” Robbie says, holding up a finger.

“Lay it on me,” Georgie says.

“We are…” Robbie starts. “Wait for it.”

“You’re so lame, Rob,” Georgie says.

“…going to the library first,” Robbie says. “For at least a couple hours.”

Georgie groans. “I hate the library.”

“Hey, tenth overall,” Robbie says. “Literally nobody’s making you stay in school, buck the fuck up.”

Georgie gives him the finger.

“I’m sure you call the Lake Erie Monsters tonight, they’ll have a roster spot for you by next game,” Robbie says. “Just sayin’, superstar.”

“Fuck off,” Georgie says. “How long are you making me go?”

“I am not making you do anything, this is an exchange,” Robbie says. “Three hours, start you in slow?”

“Three hours is _slow_?” Georgie asks. “Can’t we just study in my room or something?”

“Nope, you’ll wiggle your way out of it,” Robbie says. “Pick you up at three to get our study on?”

“The _lamest_ , Robbie,” Georgie says. 

“Yeah, you love me,” Robbie says.

*

Georgie is the worst study partner ever. Like, they don’t have any classes in common, so obviously they’re just doing their own shit, Robbie with a yellow highlighter in one hand and an orange one uncapped, waiting for the super key shit.

“You’re highlighting your textbook,” Georgie says, sounding appalled. 

“Yeah, well, it’s my textbook, I pay a billion bucks for it, I can do whatever the fuck I want to it,” Robbie says. “Little more efficient than that, bud. What’re you doing, just retyping everything your book says?”

“Bullet points,” Georgie says, then, primly, “Rephrasing information in your own words helps with knowledge acquisition.”

Robbie rolls his eyes at him. “Get back to your two finger typing then.”

“I don’t two finger type,” Georgie hisses.

“You finger bang like you type, Georgie?” Robbie asks. “Poor fucking girls.”

“Can you shut the fuck up?” a girl a couple feet away says snappishly, and they guiltily return to their respective tasks.

Georgie totally two finger types, pecks loudly away at his laptop like he’s using a fucking typewriter or some shit. Robbie’s seen the guy text, he’s like faster than light, so he has no fucking clue how the fuck typing eludes him. Must require thumbs? All Robbie knows is he’s basically ready to throttle him by the time they take a break, because he can’t concentrate over the peck peck pecking of Georgie’s note taking.

“I lied, hour and a half is good,” Robbie says. “Thanks for playing, please never study with me again.”

Georgie makes a face at him, but gets everything packed up. “You’re still up to going to T’s later though, right?”

“Who do you take me for?” Robbie says. “Deal’s a fucking deal.”

Georgie disappears on him again pretty early that night, and there’s no fucking way he’s getting off in one of those bathrooms, so he probably went back to the dorms or whatever place the chick lives. _boo you whore_ , Robbie texts him, but it’s not like Lee’s party where Robbie didn’t know the way back or something. Braden’s there with his girlfriend, and Robbie feels okay about crashing that lovefest.

“Sorry for abandoning you,” Georgie says the next morning. 

“She better have been super fucking hot, is all I’m saying,” Robbie says. 

“She was,” Georgie says, and Robbie doesn’t doubt it. Georgie’s not fucking bad himself, even before the whole ‘yeah, future NHLer, you can mention it when I’m famous’, which probably works great as long as she’s actually aware hockey’s a sport, or whatever. It’s Boston, so he’s got a pretty decent chance, there. 

“Make it up to you,” Georgie says. “Study today?”

“Oh my god, fuck off,” Robbie says, and shoves Georgie when he laughs at him.


End file.
